


The Sun and Moon

by glibli



Category: Mumintroll | Moomins Series - Tove Jansson, 楽しいムーミン一家 | Moomin (Anime)
Genre: Fluff and Angst, M/M, Mutual Pining, as per usual, but not before telling one more story, it's fall and snuf's gotta go, it's honestly not that angsty actually!, little my's a little gremlin, sorry about the angst! it'll be okay!!!!
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-10
Updated: 2019-05-14
Packaged: 2020-02-29 17:17:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,820
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18782659
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/glibli/pseuds/glibli
Summary: For the first time since Moomin had come bounding up to him from Moominhouse, Snufkin paused in his packing to sit amid the sparse wildflowers that had lasted the first wave of frost. Moomin, who was never one to miss his cue, abandoned his Shakespearean sorrow and propped his head on both of his paws to face the mumrik. “It’s difficult for me to go,” Snufkin said, deciding to risk a rare moment of honesty, “but don’t you see? That’s why I have to.”Moomin looked down at the grass, and Snufkin was suddenly reminded of a wilted flower. He sighed once again and cleared his throat.“Once upon a time…” he began.





	1. The Fairy Tale

**Author's Note:**

> this isn't edited as much as i'd like, but i hope most of it's okay. oh also, snufkin's trans in this story, but it doesn't impact the plot :) there's a long stretch of dialogue broken into paragraphs as well, so i hope that's not too difficult to follow!
> 
> thank you for reading!!!!!*finger guns*

“Can you tell one more story before you go?”

Moomin was sitting, cross-legged, on the grass beside the stream, his tail an anxious pendulum swinging back and forth. Snufkin paused in the middle of folding his bedroll and turned to the troll, who had busied himself with wadding clumps of grass together into little pillows. Snufkin couldn’t stop a gentle smile escaping from under the ragged brim of his hat. Lately, these small smiles had seemed as free as butterflies, fluttering over his face without regard. In fact, that had been one of the signs that he had to get a move on and leave Moominvalley.

“Please, Snufkin?” asked the troll. Snufkin, who realized he hadn’t responded, finished with his bedroll and tied it slowly, his paws careful and precise.

“I’ve told you half a million stories already,” Snufkin said patiently. “There’s only so long I can stall, you know.” He looked up as a sudden gust of wind sent leaves tumbling into a gray sky. “I have to leave today.”

“I know,” Moomin sighed. He flopped on the ground dejectedly and placed a hand over his forehead. “I just want to spend more time with you.”

Snufkin eyed Moomin thoughtfully as he tied the bedroll to his knapsack. To be honest, it had taken him longer than usual to pack his things this year, even though he just as many supplies as he had the previous. But it wasn’t the trip ahead that had bothered him. It was a different kind of anxiety that poured over his autumn-busy paws, slowing them, cementing them to the valley and to his friends. It only got worse each year. He sighed.

“I understand,” he said. For the first time since Moomin had come bounding up to him from Moominhouse, Snufkin paused in his packing to sit amid the sparse wildflowers that had lasted the first wave of frost. Moomin, who was never one to miss his cue, abandoned his Shakespearean sorrow and propped his head on both of his paws to face the mumrik. “It’s difficult for me to go,” he continued, deciding to risk a rare moment of honesty, “but don’t you see? That’s why I have to.”

Moomin looked down at the grass, and Snufkin was suddenly reminded of a wilted flower. His chest thrummed painfully, as though his abdomen were a bell and the clapper had just tolled against the side. He sighed once again and cleared his throat.

“Once upon a time…” he began, and Moomin’s demeanor shifted just as drastically once more.

“Oh, you will tell one? That’s fantas —” the troll started to say, but immediately hushed when Snufkin continued.

“...before there were houses and mills and farms, the stars were people, and so were the moon and sun. The days were longer, lasting what we would call weeks, and each day, the sun came to live on the earth. Her flaming hair coated the trees with light, and they felt like gold. The flowers grew when she touched them. She made the world alive wherever she went.

“Each night, after the sun had gone to sleep in the mountains, the moon and stars journeyed down from the sky on ladders made of silver and crystal. The stars danced among the bluebells and dandelions, but their light didn’t make them grow, like the sun’s light did. It made them sing. The moon didn’t dance like her sisters, but sat among them and sang with the earth. The darkness shivered with longing. The moon’s song wasn’t sunlight, but something so close that it made the world ache with beauty. It made the world wonder what her riddles of light left out.

“The sun, for eons, wasn’t awake to hear the moon’s voice, but it haunted her dreams as she slept. When she woke, it kept her going during her walks below the mountains. She made bells from rainwater and tied them to her ankles, so that she was always reminded of the moon’s song. Her movements with these bells left rainbows wherever she went. Her light was magnificent, but she could never know in full the wonders that her light did to everything around her.

“One night, when the moon and stars had already descended to the world and had begun their song, the moon hit a particularly high note and the sun woke early from her slumber.

“‘What’s this?’ she asked, listening to the moon. ‘I’m awake, but I can still hear the song from my dreams.’

“She rose from between the crests of two mountains and came, quietly, to the edge of the field with the moon and stars. However, her light gave her away, and the stars scattered in fright. The moon continued her song, but more slowly as the sun approached from behind. When the moon turned, the sun nearly collapsed from how beautiful she thought the moon was. The moon finished her song, and they stared at each other.

“‘Tell me,’ the sun said, ‘what do you sing of, Beautiful One?’

“‘The love of my life,’ the moon said. ‘I watch her light every day from afar, and wait for her to fall asleep before coming to the earth she touches every day. I want to sing about her light, but I could never capture it in whole. Instead, I sing around it, hint at it. It’s all I can do.’

“‘Why don’t you spend the day with your love instead of living in solitude?’ asked the sun.

“‘It’s not my wish to interrupt her life, nor to follow her every footstep,’ the moon said, ‘no matter how I long to be with her.’

“The sun held the moon’s hand. ‘Would it suit you to spend only a little time with her? That way, she can continue her walks and you can continue to sing.’

“The moon smiled and said, ‘I’d like that very much.’

“So that’s why in a small portion of the evening, one can see both the moon and the sun in the sky together. Over time, the days have gotten shorter, because the moon and sun can’t bear to be away for too long. But they continued to live their lives, and be together when they wished. And all was well.”

By the time Snufkin had finished the lengthy story, Moomin’s eyes, which were wide in rapture, had pooled slightly with tears. The grass and a few poor dandelion stems around his paws were hopelessly mangled from being clenched tightly in his grip.

Snufkin, whose voice had gone sore from talking for so long, got up to drink from the creek. When he sat back down again, paws still wet from cupping them in the current, he barely had time to wipe them on his dress before Moomin’s voice bombarded him.

“Snufkin,” Moomin exclaimed, his voice a little hoarse from his tears, “that was an absolutely marvelous story! Did you make it up all on your own?”

Snufkin, who had jumped slightly from Moomin’s sudden shouting, straightened his hat. “Well,” he said, fighting to keep embarrassment from squeezing his voice an octave slightly too high for his comfort, “one has a lot of time to think of stories when they’re alone, you see.”

“Wow!” Moomin said, laughing. “I had no idea you were such a good storyteller! I mean, I knew, but not, well, as far as fairy tales go. When I asked for a story, I thought you were going to tell me about your travels!”

Snufkin’s face was now all too red to show. He quickly leaned back and placed his hat over his head, giving up as the heat of his blush assaulted him. This was why he only played music, he thought bitterly. Telling stories was for people more skilled in conversation. Words were too complicated, had too many consequences, and he wasn’t careful enough with them. He didn’t want anyone’s focus on him. With music, the melody itself had the attention as it unfurled about the mind. Stories were, put simply, much too obvious to tell, he chastised himself. With music, you could only elude to things that others would understand.

At first, it slipped by his awareness that Moomintroll had stopped talking long ago, but the silence eventually became too tight to ignore, even from beneath his hat. He lifted a frayed edge cautiously, and saw that the troll was staring anxiously at the clouds, paws clasped. Snufkin looked quickly up at the sky as well, but there was nothing there to draw the eye. Confused, he peered at Moomin, who refused to meet Snufkin’s gaze.

“What’s — er — up?” Snufkin asked awkwardly.

“What was the story about, Snufkin?” asked Moomin, carefully lowering his snout as he rummaged in the grass to fiddle with dandelion leaves. Snufkin, even more bemused and slightly nervous now, watched a cool finger of wind sweep up the abandoned tips of grass that Moomin had plucked.

“Whatever do you mean?” Snufkin asked slowly.

“Well — ” Moomin began, faltering. “Never — nevermind.” Moomin slumped, gathering his dandelions in a small pile before picking a few more. He then took a breath and drew himself up. “No, you — you came up with the story, didn’t you? Did you really?”

“Yes, I did,” Snufkin said.

“Then you must have — ” Moomin cupped his face in his hands. “What was it really about? The sun and the moon — ”

Suddenly, Snufkin found the thread linking Moomintroll’s disjointed words. His eyes widened as, internally, he scorned himself for all he was worth. Moomin seemed to take Snufkin’s cornered expression as confirmation for the unasked question.

“The sun and the moon couldn’t be together, the days were like seasons, the moon played music and the sun wandered — ” Moomin’s paws trembled, “ — the moon was in love with the sun.”

Snufkin leapt to his feet so quickly that his blood couldn’t keep up and it rushed to his head all at once, rendering it heavy as lead. He stumbled back, and Moomin got up to steady him. Snufkin flinched as the troll’s paws touched him. He felt all too exposed.

“I — I need to go,” he squeaked, all the learned depth to his voice vanishing quickly as mist, the final stab in the back. Before he could come up with an excuse, recover from his dizziness, or even pick up his hat from where he had left it, he leapt over his pack and half-folded tent and barreled off into the shallows of the forest. The sounds of Moomin calling his name were lost in the cunch of crisp leaves beneath his churning feet, and soon he was lost, too.

Moomintroll didn’t chase after Snufkin, but watched as the yellow tip of his scarf vanished amid the pale aspen trunks. For a moment, the troll was still. He then bent down and picked up Snufkin’s hat, gently rubbing a tattered edge between his fingers.

“Oh, dear,” he said. “What have I done?”


	2. The Missing Mumrik

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> fjdssg thank you all for your lovely comments on the previous chapter, and for reading this one!!! It means so much :)
> 
> what's beta reading, never heard of her. also god, i love writing little my

Moomin set his tea cup on his saucer, but not before it rattled noisily, as if his tea were about to hatch right in his his poor jittery paws. He peered bleakly out the window of Moominhouse, at the scattered remnants of Snufkin’s camp.

It had been about half an hour, but he still couldn’t console himself. Who knew where Snufkin had gone? He was all too familiar with the vagabond’s, well... _ vagagbonding _ , but this was different. Of course it was different, what was he saying? He’d ruined Snufkin’s story, and maybe even their friendship. Snufkin’s things were strewn all about the creekside like birds he’d shot from the sky, deserted. He’d driven his best friend into the woods with his probing, and — 

“Whatchu thinking about, Moomin?” Little My’s voice demanded from behind him, about as subtle as china plates breaking. Before Moomin could even think of turning around, his tea cup had already tipped and and scalding heat licked up his legs, which were propped on the cushion before him. He yelped like a kicked dog while Little My laughed.

“Little My!” Moomin howled vengefully, forgetting about the cup in his paw as he leapt to his feet. The little gremlin had, however, already skittered across the living room, out of reach. “Do you mind? For heaven’s sake, I have  _ tea— _ ”

“Not my fault you didn’t hear me sneak up on you!” Little My cackled as Moomin chased her into the kitchen. Round the table they went, Little My shrieking gleefully. “If you’re so worried about your tea, why are you letting it drip on the floor, you oaf?”

“Oh!” Moomin stopped immediately and looked behind, at the literal slipstream of tea waiting to send someone tumbling. “Oh, dear.”

He set his cup on the table and set about to clean his mess with one of Moominmamma’s handkerchiefs, which had been lying, folded, on a countertop. The fabric was soft as feathers, hemmed on the corners with lace. He felt guilty about using it to mop the floor, but he made a silent oath to clean it himself later. The thought gnawed caustically at his stomach: another thing he had to fix. Tears bore stubbornly into the edges of his eyes, but he was able to shift his head to the side quickly enough so that Little My didn’t see.

Now that Moomin was distracted and the danger had passed, Little My jumped up onto the table and watched the troll bend over and swab the lacquered wood. “So what  _ were _ you thinking about, eh?” she asked, swinging her short legs. “It must have been something pretty bad — I don’t usually get that much of a rise out of you.”

“It’s none of your business,” Moomin said haughtily, pressing vigorously into the floor.

“Everything’s my business,” said Little My. She hopped down to better look at Moomintroll’s furrowed face as he moved back into the living room, where the last lengthy spatter of the spilled tea led back to the window. Moomin made a valiant effort to ignore Little My’s pressing gaze, but gave up when he stood and nearly crashed into her leering form. “It has to do with Snufkin, doesn’t it?”

“So what if it does?” Moomintroll asked. He folded the damp cloth and placed it at the bottom of the staircase to be taken up later, then strode into the kitchen. Little My followed, closer to him than his own tail.

“I saw him run into the woods,” Little My said. Moomintroll froze in the act of pouring himself some more tea.

“You did?”

“Yes,” Little My said matter-of-factly. “He never runs into the woods, you know — he walks. Something’s up, and I’d like to know what you’re going to do about it.”

“Well — ” Moomin faltered, fumbling with his words and feeling more than ever as though someone had turned a light off in his head. Little My quickly walked over and snatched the kettle from his dangerously slack paws.

“You shouldn’t hold hot things when you’re upset,” she said irritably. She set it down hard on the table, but Moomin didn’t seem to notice. His snout fell into his now-empty paws. He was scattered as Snufkin’s things on the grass, his voice muffled as the autumn sunlight as he spoke. Little My rolled her eyes and leaned closer to hear better.

“Oh, I simply don’t know what to do, My. I’ve a feeling I should leave him alone, but that doesn’t seem like the right thing to do. And how’m I supposed to find  _ Snufkin _ in the  _ woods _ ? Heaven knows where he went, it’s his dratted  _ habitat _ . As if he’d want me to find him anyway…”

“You poor idiot,” Little My said.

“His story was beautiful, and I fear I’ve turned into something it wasn’t, soiled it just like I soiled the floor with my tea, it’s all my fault, and he’s left his hat — his  _ hat _ ! He never leaves his hat! You’re absolutely right, Little My, I  _ am _ an idiot, a darned idiot—”

“Who doesn’t know how to shut up.”

“—who doesn’t have a clue how to talk to people without concocting some sort of fanciful outcome or feeling that just isn’t there, and—”

“If feelings weren’t there,” Little My interrupted loudly, “then Snufkin wouldn’t have run into the trees, dummy.”

Moomin, who was now more a puddle of tears than a troll, paused. “What—?”

“Look,” Little My said, lowering the spout of the teakettle into the cup, “just go out there and find him.” Once she had filled the cup, she threw her head back and quaffed its contents in one gulp. She then wiped her mouth as steam twisted lightly from her lips, reminding Moomin of dragon’s breath. “If anyone can find him, it’s you. And bring his hat — I’m convinced he’s not himself without it.”

It took Moomintroll a moment for this to snap into place, but once it did, he straightened from his slouch, as though someone had found marionette strings tied to his back and given them a good yank. “You’re right,” he said determinedly. “I must find him and apologize. It’s the right thing to do.”

“That’s not what I said — ” Little My began, but the troll cut her off.

“Thank you so much, Little My!” he said, already springing away to the door, wiping tears from his puffy eyes along the way. “Tell Mamma and Pappa where I am if they get back from the beach!”

Little My watched with a nuance of incredulity from behind the counter as Moomin reached the door and left it swinging on its hinges. She shook her head exasperatedly. It’d be boring to follow and listen in on the conversation that was bound to occur. The mail was about to arrive anyway, and she had set a fresh trap of live wasps for the postman. She took the kettle in both paws, lifted its lid, and downed the rest of the scorching-hot tea, then leapt onto the counter and out the back window, deft as a rabbit.

 

— 

 

Moomin had a few places in mind as he threaded about the thin aspen trunks, ignoring the path to the beach with the thought in mind that Snufkin had sprinted away the right of its sprawl. The spring toward the Lonely Mountains, where he and Snufkin liked to spend a hot summer’s day, was a viable option, as well as the grove where they liked to pick mushrooms. He may have even set off to scale the cliffside overlooking the shoreline. But, of course, there were countless other havens and avenues that Snufkin might have preferred, and which the troll might not have known about at all. Moomin fought a nauseating swell of hopelessness at the task, barely managing to abate the sting of tears that came with it. In his mind’s eye, he imagined himself with a big broom in hand, shooing away the useless thoughts as if they were a pesky cat. The image gave him some strength, as though he had drunk warm honey and milk. He spurred his gait quicker than ever, and pushed on.

The aspens of the forest quickly gave way to elms, whose golden leaves dripped, twirling down, from slightly drooping branches. The occasional littleleaf linden tree could be spotted as well, their lovely white flowers long banished by the seasonal cold. Moomin paused halfway to the cliff, his breath quick and shallow as lapping water from running all the way. He put his head in his paws, shivering as another wave of anxiety overcame him. His tail curled desperately around his legs.

“Ah, it’s alright, it’s alright,” he told himself shakily. “I’ll find him, I just need to focus is all.” He closed his eyes as his breath began to calm, ears pricked to unravel the tangled white noise of the forest. Snufkin was too careful to cause much of a stir, even if he was distraught. But Snufkin himself had taught the troll how to sneak up on even the most timid and jumpy of wildlife, the better to watch them about their business. It seemed a bit strange to track the mumrik like he would if he wanted to observe the goings-on of a deer, he thought. But then again, he  _ had _ to apologize. It’s what Snufkin deserved, the least he could do.

Moomin looked up, listening more intently still. It was then that something occurred to him.

“Hullo now,” he murmured quietly, “I haven’t heard a bird in some time.” He tilted his head, just to be sure, and indeed not a single chirp or whistle sifted through the stillness. In fact, now that he lent thought to the matter, he  _ hadn’t _ heard them ever since he had passed the grove where they used to play hide-and-seek when they were younger.

“I must be getting close,” he said, and walked slowly onward, now focusing ardently on the sounds about him. He was now nearing the base of the cliff. A brook pooled near its slope, the current coiling gently against itself like string falling to the ground.

As he approached, he took extra care to stifle his footsteps, not wishing to startle the mumrik should he be somewhere nearby. He took comfort in the soft voice of the stream — it would sweep nicely over any accidental noise.

The ferns and bushes, abundant near the running water, rustled slightly in a light flurry of wind over the brook. Upon pausing to examine this undergrowth, Moomintroll noticed that one of the fern’s stems had broken. He bent over and knew immediately that it had snapped recently — the bright green filaments of its stalk hadn’t yet healed. They were still wet with the plant’s watery sap.

“Aha,” Moomin whispered triumphantly. He set the stem down as gently as he could back against its base, then looked up ahead. Sure enough, the stretch of sporadic plants beyond the fern had suffered similar breakages. Here and there, branches had splintered, leaves had bent, and the shod needles from the pines above were slightly ruffled on the ground.

Feeling as giddy as one could hope to be in such a situation, Moomintroll followed the subtle trail through the wildlife, moving parallel to the stream. He made sure to peer up into the lower boughs of the trees, thinking that Snufkin might have sought sanctuary in their arms. Then, quick as the twitch of a minnow’s fin, he halted.

The smallest sound of heavy breathing leaked into the brook’s burbling, only distinguishable if one had been listening for it, and if one possessed sensitive moomin ears. Moomintroll, whose breath had curbed in  anticipation, turned round the wide berth of the nearest pine. Nothing.

On a whim, he stooped to peep into a cloudberry bush on his left, where an opening wide enough for a mumrik could be found below its lower branches. It was there that two yellow eyes, bright as a harvest moon, glinted among the leafy shadows.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! I'll try to update soon!!


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